The Warfare of Perishing Beasts
by Kyllikki
Summary: "The words rang hollow in my ears; all my energies were concentrated on reading the man beside me as I rose to leave, but his gaze and manner remained impenetrable." Set mid-DeadAlive.


The Warfare of Perishing Beasts   
by Kyllikki (kyllikki8@hotmail.com)   
Classification: VA   
Rating: R, Sk/D, sexual situations   
Spoilers: S8 through DeadAlive; set mid-DeadAlive. 

Disclaimer: Skinner and Doggett belong to CC and 1013. If I owned them,   
there would be a whole lot more manly love going on. 

Summary: "The words rang hollow in my ears; all my energies were concentrated   
on reading the man beside me as I rose to leave, but his gaze and manner remained impenetrable." 

Notes at the end. 

**************************   
The Warfare of Perishing Beasts   
************************** 

The ringing of the phone claws its way into my consciousness. I roll over,   
groaning. Twenty-four years in the service of Uncle Sam has taught me that   
late-night phone calls are rarely good news -- and it feels pretty damn late. I   
fumble for the switch of the bedside lamp and grab the receiver. 

"Yeah," I mumble, still groggy. 

"It's Skinner," comes the terse voice on the other end. "I want you to meet me   
at the Bureau in about twenty minutes." 

His tone of voice jolts me to full consciousness. This is not a personal call;   
something is up. However, I have little patience at this hour, especially   
considering the circumstances. "For what?" I ask. I know my tone is sullen,   
but I don't care. 

"I got a call from the police. Pathologist down in Wilmington, North Carolina.   
Fishermen pulled in a dead body fifty miles offshore which they've now ID'd as   
Billy Miles." 

Shit. 

"Billy Miles?" I ask, not quite believing my ears. 

Skinner must chalk up my temporary stupidity to the late hour, because he   
replies with only the barest hint of irritation. "Kid from Oregon. He was   
abducted same time Mulder was last May." 

This recitation of facts I already know is getting old, especially in the middle   
of the night. 

"So what's the big hurry now?" I ask. 

"Now he's alive." 

Shitshitshitshitshit. Fuck. Not good. 

"I'll be right there," I growl into the phone, but Skinner has already hung up. 

Less than ten minutes later I'm wearing yesterday's suit and breaking every   
speed limit between my house and the Hoover building. Not exactly the   
late-night rendezvous I'd had in mind with the Assistant Director, but   
considering how things have been going lately, it shouldn't come as a surprise.   
Nothing like the surprise I found waiting for me this morning.   


*** 

Transfer. 

The word still puts an acrid taste in the back of my throat. Oh, sure, they   
called it a promotion, but there was no diguising its true intent. Kersh wanted   
to transfer me out of the X-Files, and good ol' Walter Sergei Skinner, A.D., had   
gone along with it. For the good of his career, probably. Because he feels the   
need to minimize his losses. Because the Marine inside of him won't let him   
disobey the direct orders of his superior. Because he stands to lose too much   
if Kersh decides he's not worth indulging anymore. 

Because he's afraid of me. 

That was what was in his eyes in Kersh's office this morning. Fear. It was in   
his posture from the moment I walked into the room. I saw it in how he refused   
to look at me, in the clench of his jaw. I heard it in his voice as he recited   
the words Kersh wanted him to say: "Deputy Director Kersh spoke to me at length   
before you came up. He thanked me and asked me to write you a letter, too --   
officially transferring you off the X-Files to a division more suited to your   
talents." 

I heard the words, but I didn't believe them. He wouldn't sell me down the   
river out of fear, would he? So I gave him a chance to set things right, to   
prove that I was just misunderstanding his intent. "Thank you for your support,   
sir," I told Kersh. "But all things being equal, I, uh ... would like to give   
any transfer some thought." The words rang hollow in my ears; all my energies   
were concentrated on reading the man beside me as I rose to leave, but his gaze   
and manner remained impenetrable. 

I left that meeting assuming that his actions in Kersh's office had been   
coerced, at the very least. Yeah, right. I should know by now what assuming   
does to people. Assuming leads to me practically knocking Skinner's office door   
off the hinges when I realize he truly believes that my transfer is the right   
thing for him. 

And he almost won. After leaving his office yesterday afternoon, I was ready to   
throw in the towel. It didn't seem to matter where they assigned me; I just   
stopped caring. 

When I skulked back down to the office to lick my wounds, though, Scully   
noticed. She never said a word, but the compassion in her eyes was clear. She   
gave me the courtesy of keeping my problems to myself, and we returned to work.   
Her presence calmed me. The silence stretched out for the afternoon, becoming   
comfortable instead of constricting. 

On the way out the door for the evening she stopped and put her hand on my   
shoulder. "I know what I told you earlier today, John -- that you should get   
out while you still can. But make sure it's on your terms, not theirs." Her   
voice was quiet, and her eyes focused somewhere past my head on points unknown. 

I looked up at her, not quite understanding what she was trying to tell me. 

Then her eyes met mine, flashing a deep blue with the weight of what she was   
saying. For a brief moment, I had a vision of what it must be like to be loved   
by this woman. "If you quit now, they win," she murmured, her voice barely   
above a whisper. Then she walked out the door, leaving me to ponder what the   
hell I was going to do next.   


*** 

I still haven't figured it out nine hours later when I pull into the parking   
garage of the Hoover building to meet him. No idea what to do with my   
professional *or* personal life -- and Walter Skinner is absolutely the last   
person I want to see. So much for that; he pulls up right on time. But judging   
by his reaction, he doesn't exactly want to be sharing space with me, either.   
When I get in the car, he turns to avoid my eyes. Even after I stare at him for   
a few seconds, he keeps his gaze studiously on the road and away from me. So I   
switch to the matter at hand, putting my   
"IDon'tCareAboutAnythingBecauseI'mAToughCop" mask firmly in place. 

"You told Agent Scully any of what you told me?" I ask, doubting he'd had the   
courage to wake her. 

"No." 

Not doing so well in the courage department today, are we? Fine, then. I'll   
give you an excuse. "My strong recommendation, sir: don't." I lean on the   
"sir" a bit for emphasis. Just so we know that we're two professionals, nothing   
more. "This thing pans out or not, you're going to reopen wounds that still need   
a lot of healing. Not to mention the fact that she's had a difficult pregnancy.   
You know that as well as anybody." As if that's not the understatement of the   
year. 

His reply, though, is icy. "I appreciate your concern, Agent Doggett," -- he,   
too, leans on the title -- "but I wouldn't have told her anyway. Certainly not   
where we're going." 

Curiouser and curiouser. "Where *are* we going?" 

For the first time since I've been in the car, he looks at me. His eyes are   
dark, and the look on his face is even darker. Words become unnecessary; only   
one thing could affect him this way. 

We speed on into the night, heading for a plane to North Carolina and an   
appointment with a dead man.   


*** 

Two airplanes and a rental car later, we pull into the cemetery where Mulder is   
buried. Skinner hasn't said a word to me since we left D.C. when, just prior to   
boarding the plane, I made one more plea to his rationality, muttering something   
to the effect of digging up Mulder's months-old body being a wild goose chase;   
he continued avoiding my eyes but snapped, "*Agent* Doggett, I would think you   
would want to make sure your biggest case was, in fact, closed." He made no   
attempt to mask the bitterness in his voice. 

He spent a lot of time on the airphone on the way down, but when he wasn't   
navigating the sticky business of disinterring a body with the Raleigh locals,   
the silence hung oppressively between us. It was more than a blanket; it was as   
though all the air had been sucked out of the cabin, taking the possibility of   
small talk with it. 

He continues the silent treatment even as we drive slowly through the cemetery,   
but the car only magnifies the tension; there is no way of distracting ourselves   
from the fact that we are alone together in a very confined space. I can feel   
his presence prickling along the left side of my body, and the slight scent of   
his aftershave tickles my nostrils. The last time we got this close over was   
three months ago.   


*** 

It was the day Teresa Hoese was found. "Circling the drain," as the ER doctor   
ever-so-tactfully pointed out. Seven years on the NYPD and I had never   
witnessed brutality like that. It hit much closer to home for Scully; I saw her   
superimpose every mark, every injury onto Mulder. The resulting picture wasn't   
pretty. 

I couldn't bear to see her cling to a battered hope that Mulder was still alive;   
better that she should expect the worst so she was prepared for it when the time   
came. Lord knows, she wasn't getting reality checks from anyone else at that   
point. Skinner was too intimidated by her to burst the bubble. Besides, I don't   
think he really wanted to believe that Mulder might not be coming back either.   
So I told her. 

"Bad as you want to find Mulder, you're afraid to find him, too," I said. I   
knew it hurt. Hell, it hurt me to say it. But it felt right. She spent the   
rest of the day in a near-stupor, answering questions when asked directly but   
not engaging either Skinner or me in unnecessary conversation. After we checked   
into the hotel, she drifted to her room and disappeared inside without another   
word. 

Obviously, Skinner noticed. And somehow, he got her to tell him what had   
happened -- because at about nine o'clock that night, I had a very angry AD on   
the other end of my phone line. 

"Agent Doggett, please come down to my room. There's something I need to   
discuss with you." Skinner's voice was as tight as I'd ever heard it. Then the   
line went dead. 

I'm not sure what I was expecting when I knocked on his door, but it certainly   
wasn't a solicitous Skinner at the door saying quietly, "John. Come on in." He   
stepped back and ushered me into his room. Not surprisingly, it looked almost   
exactly like mine. He had not yet changed out of his work clothes, though his   
jacket lay crumpled over the back of a chair and his tie was nowhere in sight. 

I sat down gingerly on the end of the bed, waiting for the axe to fall. 

"Want a beer?" he asked over his shoulder as he opened the fridge. 

"Sure," I replied warily. 

He rescued two Coronas from the tiny refrigerator, opened them, and handed one   
to me on his way to the chair. He collapsed into the chair and stared into his   
bottle. I looked at him, curious. "We gonna toast something or what?" 

He heaved a deep sigh. "To ... hope," he said mirthlessly. 

Yeah, he'd definitely talked to Scully. "Hope," I echoed. The beer was cold,   
and I relished its bitter taste in my mouth before I swallowed. We sat in   
silence, staring at the floor and drinking our beer. When I finished, he   
fetched another from the refrigerator and handed it to me. I nodded my thanks.   
Still no axe. By the time he was nearing the end of his third bottle, I was   
downright antsy. 

"Sir, what am I doing here?" I asked, breaking the silence. 

Skinner sighed again, drained the rest of his beer, and grimaced. For the first   
time since we had started drinking, he met my eyes. "John, we're not going to   
find him alive, are we?" I'd never heard his voice so flat. It was as if all   
the will to live had just been sucked out of him. 

I opened my mouth to protest, but the words died on my lips. I was honest with   
Scully; I should be honest with him. I respected him too much to do otherwise. 

He noticed my lack of protest. "What you told Scully today ... you're right."   
His voice cracked, and his eyes were back on the floor. "John, I keep thinking   
I've failed them. Both of them." 

He looked up at me with pain etched all over his face. "I just-- I can't   
believe-- It wasn't supposed to--" And with that, sobs overtook him, possibly   
for the first time since Mulder had disappeared. 

No one should have to suffer grief like this alone. We'd both seen our share of   
pain in the line of duty, and I knew what it meant to have the support of a   
comrade in times of pain. I crossed to where he was sitting, drew him up out of   
the chair, and put my arms around him. He clung to me in all those cliched ways   
people cling to one another when they're hurting, body still shaking with sobs.   
Even after the sobs quieted, I allowed him to stay wrapped around me, giving him   
all the comfort and support I could. 

How long we stayed that way, I'm not sure. All I know is, one minute I was   
comforting my boss with a manly hug, and the next minute it turned into   
something entirely different. Tension crackled between us. His breathing had   
slowed, but now I could feel his heart racing. Or maybe it was my heart. But   
before I knew what was what, Walter Skinner was running his hands up and down my   
back and nibbling on my neck. And I was returning the favor. 

It seemed the most natural thing in the world. Before I knew it, we had   
collapsed into a tangle on the bed. His hands were all over me, but what   
captured my interest was his mouth. I leaned over and kissed him deeply,   
relishing the difference between the softness of lips and the roughness of   
stubble. He tasted of beer and tears and something deeper, more essentially   
male. As I pushed my tongue between his lips, he ran his hands along the   
waistband of my jeans, tugging my shirt loose. 

Well. Two could play this game. Moving quickly, I pulled both his hands above   
his head and pushed him back on the bed so I straddled him. His eyes sparkled   
in surprise, but he didn't seem to mind the position he was in -- the evidence   
of his growing arousal pressed against my leg. 

"Well, Agent Doggett, now that you've got me here, what do you plan to do with   
me?" he asked, his voice rough. 

I grinned -- really grinned. "Gee, I don't know, Walter," I replied,   
emphasizing his first name. "What would you like me to do?" 

"It looks as though I'm not in a position to make any demands," he observed,   
arching up into me. I groaned from the sensation. 

"Mmm. I dunno, maybe we could negotiate something," I replied. Then I kissed   
him again, allowing my hands free reign over that magnificent body. While our   
tongues explored our dental work, I ran my hands over his well-muscled arms and   
torso -- a torso shamefully still hidden behind two layers of shirts. His   
muscles rippled, and I wondered how his skin would feel under my touch. 

I began unbuttoning his dress shirt, only to rediscover how difficult it is to   
multitask something like that. So much blood had flowed south of my waist in   
the past few minutes that there was precious little left in my brain to manage   
both kissing the hell out of my boss *and* undressing him. So I temporarily   
gave up on the former task for the sake of the latter, and began working the   
buttons in earnest. 

The instant I was no longer restraining his arms, Skinner moved his hands to   
grip my waist. The feel of his cock pressing up against me and his hands   
clenching my ass sent pulses of excitement shooting through my body, and I   
closed my eyes to ride out the sensation. He growled with pleasure, and I think   
I joined him. Now he wasn't the only one growing hard; my jeans were becoming   
more than a little uncomfortable. He managed to wrestle my henley off and   
trailed paths of fire across my chest with his fingers. 

But despite those marvelous hands, I would not be deterred from my objective: to   
rid him of that damned dress shirt. And several seconds later, my mission was   
accomplished; only his white t-shirt stood between me and Skinner's exquisite   
chest. I leaned forward to kiss him again, staring into his deep brown eyes   
and-- 

A knock at the door. An *insistent* knock at the door. 

I groaned. A shadow crossed his face. "Don't answer it," I said. 

"I have to," he said. "It could be important." 

Reluctantly, I rolled off of him, wondering what would have happened had we not   
been interrupted. He answered the door in his t-shirt and work pants. He stood   
protectively in the entry, blocking the view of the room from whomever stood   
outside. Then I heard Scully's voice. 

Shit. 

"Let me get some clothes on," he said. He closed the door and turned to face   
me. The despondent look in his eyes had returned, but his expression was blank.   
"She just had a bad dream," he said by way of explanation. "I'm going to go   
talk to her." 

"Want me to wait for you?" I asked. 

He flinched. "Stay as long as you like," he replied, putting his shirt and   
shoes on. I could tell he didn't mean it. His voice shook, as though he was   
suddenly uncertain about the path we had been about to take. He shot me one more   
inscrutable glance and then left. 

I snuck out of his room like a thief, except the things I gathered were my own.   
As I quietly made the return trip to my room, I could see the two of them   
standing in the parking lot, looking up at the sky. I wondered what they were   
talking about. I wondered if Skinner and I would ever get a chance to finish   
what we had started. 

I kept on wondering, too, because for nearly three months he acted as though   
that night never happened. 

*** 

Now, as we creep along the cemetery road toward Mulder's grave, I still wonder.   
I wonder how much of our antagonism over Mulder's forced resurrection is   
professional and how much is personal. I wonder why the hell I'm thinking that   
-- after all, I'm the sane one. I'm not the one who wants to dig up the body of   
a man who's been dead three months on the off chance he might still be alive. 

Having gotten as close to the gravesite as the road will take us, Skinner stops   
the car. As we get out, the utter ridiculousness of the situation -- both   
digging up the grave and Skinner's support of my expected "promotion" -- hits me   
one more time. 

I just can't stay quiet any longer, and my anger suddenly bursts forth. "I'll   
say it again," I spit. "We're opening up more than a grave here." I think he   
realizes I'm not just talking about Mulder. 

"I respect that, Agent Doggett," Skinner bites back, "but under the   
circumstances I think not digging it up would be far more regrettable, don't   
you?" His tone is aloof, patronizing -- which, ironically, only fuels my   
fervor. 

"No," I snap. "I think this is insanity." The subtext is really cooking now; I   
see a glimmer of recongition in his eyes. 

His eyes turn steely. "Yeah, well, personally, *I* couldn't live with the   
doubt." 

"That what? That we buried a man alive? We found Mulder, you and me together."   
I lean slightly on "together" and pause to let it sink in before continuing.   
"We saw the same body. Mulder wasn't just dead, he'd been dead for days. Had to   
have a closed casket. For crying out loud, the body was too far gone and that   
was three months ago." I glare at him. Three fucking months in limbo, for   
crying out loud. 

He flinches almost imperceptibly, then ignores the deeper level of the   
conversation and spouts some jargon about the ME's findings. I can't bring   
myself to listen closely -- I'm too angry about his willful ignorance of the   
deeper underpinnings here. 

"... it's a fluke the doctor even noticed," he concludes. 

Waves of disgust overwhelm me. Disgust with him for not having the strength of   
belief to follow through with this thing, and disgust with myself for ever   
believing he *would* follow through with it. "I don't believe it," I growl. "I   
don't believe I'm even standing here." I shoot him a scathing look before   
dropping my eyes to the ground, watching the backhoe peel dirt from Mulder's   
gaping grave. 

Searching for the undead. Somehow it seems appropriate.   


***end***   
  


Thanks to jael for long-ago beta and handholding. :) 

The title is drawn from Pablo Neruda: 

You, my antagonist, in that splintering dream   
like the bristling glass of gardens, like a menace   
of ruinous bells, volleys   
of blackening ivy at the perfume's center,   
enemy of the great hipbones that have touched my skin   
with a harrowing dew, with a tongue of water --   
whatever the mute winter of your teeth or the hate of your eyes,   
whatever the warfare of perishing beasts who guard our oblivion,   
in some dominion of the summer, we are one,   
ambushed with lips, in a cannonade of thirst . . . 

Feedback is better than an army of Jimmy Fallon clones.   
kyllikki8@hotmail.com   
  
http://hamsandwich.topcities.com  



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